signal it was time to extract herself, to find some distance and sanity.
Yet the moment she moved his hands clenched, one on her shoulder and the other her hip, holding her still. “Stay,” he said, stroking the length of her, up and down, rolling so she sprawled on top of him, his hand free to roam everywhere, massaging, squeezing, drawing delicate designs with the tips of his fingers that make her shudder.
It was entrancing. Impossible to move away, to disobey that sure touch that soothed and stimulated. She hesitated, then tentatively gave him the weight of her head, laid it on his chest and stopped thinking.
Instead she felt. The generosity of that touch, savoring and . . . worshipful. Sweetly sensuous, setting her adrift with a head full of butterflies, soft fluttering flashes of sensation.
Subtly over the long minutes the mood changed as he caressed her more intimately, finding the cleft in her buttocks, her inner thighs, the wetness between them. He shifted his legs so hers fell apart on either side of his, his erection pulsing and growing to nestle just where she was most slick.
He pushed her thighs closed again, wrapped around that insistent silken shaft, and went on stroking and touching, his cock joining in with its own sliding motion. It was unbelievably decadent, to press her legs closed as if protecting her feminine core and still feel him there, teasing her, gliding over her clitoris, over the swollen lips that had enfolded him so recently, that surrounded him now.
She was passive, receptive, dazed and bemused by the softness and ease of it, punctuated by electrifying tingles that swept through her so she quivered and gasped, instantly soothed by those masterful hands back into quiescence.
Analytical thought gone. Barriers down. Lost. At peace. Outside herself and yet housed firmly in a body so overwhelmed there was no room for self-consciousness or fight.
And when he held her hips, tilted her pelvis to suit his design and after a moment’s maneuver entered her at an angle she would have thought impossible, the exquisite delicacy slackened her muscles, every part of her suspended in a bliss like she’d never experienced. Touched inside and out, filled and stretched, the rocking motion of his body beneath, around and in her.
It unstitched her . Her orgasm was like a wave, sweeping over her, lifting her in exultation and transporting her impossibly far from where she had been; leaving her beached on far distant shores, weeping a single strange, silent tear in awe and sorrow.
He parted her legs again so she straddled him, sliding extraordinarily deep and then stilling, motionless so long that eventually she – senses reassembled – lifted her head. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, half lidded and with a sensual smile curling his full lips.
And she found herself smiling back, instinctively, with no h ostility inside her, no anxiety; nothing to prove. A partner to him in his quest for their pleasure. An ally. A friend.
He was all warmth and lazy enjoyment, unhurried and languid. She flexed up and down to watch him, and he closed his eyes to savor the movement, then opened them again to grin up at her, boyish and relaxed; trusting her.
She could give him pleasure. She could give him that much. Out of whatever twisted and impoverished being dwelt inside her where he could not see, still she knew how to do that.
So she rode him gently, seeing his eyes haze, his hands tightening on her waist as he absently kneaded her flanks, adding his strength to speed her descent, raising her up then pulling her down again. When she leaned forward those hands rose to cup and shape her breasts, lifting their weight and plucking at her hard nipples so her rhythm became ragged, lost in the jolt of fire that made her clench around him. He liked that. She could see it, could read his enjoyment. He liked her pleasure. As she found she liked his. Not to prove her own skill, but for its own sake, as a beautiful thing
Yet the moment she moved his hands clenched, one on her shoulder and the other her hip, holding her still. “Stay,” he said, stroking the length of her, up and down, rolling so she sprawled on top of him, his hand free to roam everywhere, massaging, squeezing, drawing delicate designs with the tips of his fingers that make her shudder.
It was entrancing. Impossible to move away, to disobey that sure touch that soothed and stimulated. She hesitated, then tentatively gave him the weight of her head, laid it on his chest and stopped thinking.
Instead she felt. The generosity of that touch, savoring and . . . worshipful. Sweetly sensuous, setting her adrift with a head full of butterflies, soft fluttering flashes of sensation.
Subtly over the long minutes the mood changed as he caressed her more intimately, finding the cleft in her buttocks, her inner thighs, the wetness between them. He shifted his legs so hers fell apart on either side of his, his erection pulsing and growing to nestle just where she was most slick.
He pushed her thighs closed again, wrapped around that insistent silken shaft, and went on stroking and touching, his cock joining in with its own sliding motion. It was unbelievably decadent, to press her legs closed as if protecting her feminine core and still feel him there, teasing her, gliding over her clitoris, over the swollen lips that had enfolded him so recently, that surrounded him now.
She was passive, receptive, dazed and bemused by the softness and ease of it, punctuated by electrifying tingles that swept through her so she quivered and gasped, instantly soothed by those masterful hands back into quiescence.
Analytical thought gone. Barriers down. Lost. At peace. Outside herself and yet housed firmly in a body so overwhelmed there was no room for self-consciousness or fight.
And when he held her hips, tilted her pelvis to suit his design and after a moment’s maneuver entered her at an angle she would have thought impossible, the exquisite delicacy slackened her muscles, every part of her suspended in a bliss like she’d never experienced. Touched inside and out, filled and stretched, the rocking motion of his body beneath, around and in her.
It unstitched her . Her orgasm was like a wave, sweeping over her, lifting her in exultation and transporting her impossibly far from where she had been; leaving her beached on far distant shores, weeping a single strange, silent tear in awe and sorrow.
He parted her legs again so she straddled him, sliding extraordinarily deep and then stilling, motionless so long that eventually she – senses reassembled – lifted her head. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, half lidded and with a sensual smile curling his full lips.
And she found herself smiling back, instinctively, with no h ostility inside her, no anxiety; nothing to prove. A partner to him in his quest for their pleasure. An ally. A friend.
He was all warmth and lazy enjoyment, unhurried and languid. She flexed up and down to watch him, and he closed his eyes to savor the movement, then opened them again to grin up at her, boyish and relaxed; trusting her.
She could give him pleasure. She could give him that much. Out of whatever twisted and impoverished being dwelt inside her where he could not see, still she knew how to do that.
So she rode him gently, seeing his eyes haze, his hands tightening on her waist as he absently kneaded her flanks, adding his strength to speed her descent, raising her up then pulling her down again. When she leaned forward those hands rose to cup and shape her breasts, lifting their weight and plucking at her hard nipples so her rhythm became ragged, lost in the jolt of fire that made her clench around him. He liked that. She could see it, could read his enjoyment. He liked her pleasure. As she found she liked his. Not to prove her own skill, but for its own sake, as a beautiful thing
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